The Art of Reanimation and PVA Glue
by LiteratiAngel
Summary: "I don't love him, in the same way that he doesn't love me; we just need each other...Sometimes I hate him. But that's ok; I think the feeling is mutual." AU Alt!TenRose, SherlockRose, SherlockMolly. Reviews are love. More info inside!
1. I: The Planets Bend Between Us

**The Art of Reanimation and PVA Glue**

**Disclaimer: I don't own either _Doctor Who_ or _Sherlock_...they both belong to The Beeb and The Moff...**

**Disclaimer Take Two: I don't own any of the songs from the album _'A Hundred Million Suns and Stars'_...They all belong to the incomparable Snow Patrol, I'm just borrowing them for a while...**

**Dedications: For my darling slutty little tea boy, Ianto (_ConfusedinTime)_ as a VERY belated Christmas and 18th birthday present...My little tea boy's all grown up! =]**

**Rating: M...for _ahem_ dancing...kiddies look away now...(well, look away at chapter three...)**

**Paring(s): _Alt!Ten/Rose, Sherlock/Rose, Sherlock/Molly_**

**A/N: So after a huge hiatus when I just didn't write anything thanks to stupid university coursework and even more stupid writer's block, I now feel comfortable enough with my work to publish the first few chapters of a _Doctor Who/Sherlock_ crossover that I have been writing for at least six months. I have the first three chapters completed, plus a couple of the later ones but there's still a lot of work that needs to go into it, so it may take a while to be completely uploaded, although I am determined to finish this one completely!**

**A/N Take Two: This is set after the whole Metacrises debacle, so Rose is stuck in the Parallel Universe with Handy!Doctor and a certain high-functioning sociopath super sleuth...**

**A/N Take Three: **Reviews feed the plot bunnies and get them off my back...They're also very much appreciated so once you've finished reading, have a go at pressing that purdy li'l button at the bottom of the page...Pretty please with an even prettier Time Lord and/or Consulting Detective on top?****

**...**

_**I: The Planets Bend Between Us**_

_The winters marked the Earth,__  
><em>_It's floored with frozen glass.__  
><em>_You slip into my arms,__  
><em>_And you quickly correct yourself._

…

It's too cold to wear a dress but as he is so fond of pointing out, _'it's summer on Melissa Majoria, so who cares if it's a bit chilly here?'_ Personally I just think he likes to wear nothing but shorts and t-shirts all the time…or maybe he thinks that pretending that it's permanently summer will convince _me_ to wear shorts and t-shirts all the time. It's funny, you know, I'm so damn used to dreaming about the Time Lord he used to be that it becomes so easy to forget that he's human now. A human man, with all the idiocy and sex that goes hand-in-hand with that. Sometimes I wonder if I'd have been just the same for staying with Mickey…but that's not really fair, is it?

But the dress, _this damnable dress_…Big society parties have never been my thing. I grew up on a council estate in a rough area of London, so it wasn't like it was immediately going to be second nature to me, but even after two years of sycophancy, I hate it. I hate the dressing up, the preening, the false compliments under chandeliers, surrounded by flashy interior design that even Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen would find too over-the-top. Of course, _he's_ in his element, especially if he's the centre of attention, which usually happens because he makes it so. And I'm the accessory. Oh, he doesn't see it like that, I know…but I know better. I know what I am to the rabble of lions that make up this particularly affluent den. Rose Tyler; the Doctor's faithful companion, _so_ _fucking in love with him_…isn't it _sweet_! I suppose it is. Or it would be if I was wearing the same rose-tinted spectacles as the rest of the world, but the fact is that behind closed doors, it's a very different story. In front of the photographers, I smile into his kisses and look up at him adoringly while he goes off on one about how I was his salvation and he's never loved anyone like he loves me. I spout the same stuff, of course; you've got to keep your stories straight, after all. But for me it's all lies. I don't love him like he loves me; in fact, I don't even think I like him very much. I _have_ loved someone the way he loves me, but it's not him. It's not the pretender standing next to me. The one who slips his fingers in between mine as I pretend not to notice that they're warmer than they should be; the one who kisses me and whispers his love in my ear as I pretend not to remember that he shouldn't be able to express it in words; the one who fucks me like he thinks I've always wanted to be fucked as I pretend not to know that he was never the one I wanted. It's almost like living with a photocopy; the picture's the same but it's too rough around the edges where the ink has smudged across the paper.

_But this dress…_all scarlet and short and shivering. The silk feels synthetic as it slides roughly along my thighs and it all feels like a lie; the symbolism of red for love, when the truth is that my love crossed The Void and stayed there in the nothingness. It hasn't been replaced; there's just an empty, desperate need that devours me from the inside out. He picked it out for me. The dress, I mean. Wrapping his gift up in a ribbon of a suggestive smirk, presumably in the hope that I'll reciprocate. I don't. It fits like a glove but it feels like it's suffocating me. Mum just shoves a drink into my hand and tells me to smile; neither the drink nor the smile last more than thirty seconds. So now I'm at the bar, staring at the olive at the bottom of my martini glass, 'cause some society _darling_ would just _die_ if they served anything as common as a nice cold pint of beer. It's then that I see him; tall and skinny, with curling black hair and an expression as bored as my own. He's arguing with another man who I'm sure I've seen at one of these things before.

"Yes, _thank you_, Mycroft, I'm well aware that it's Mother's birthday next week, but I've got a lot on at the moment. Very busy. You must know how it is, what with all that spying on the Russians. How's that working out for you, by the way?"

I feel a warm hand in the small of my back but I don't bother to turn around. "Do you want to get out of here?" he asks, his voice low and infinitely tempting…but just not tempting enough.

"We can't. My mum would kill us." I say flatly.

"I didn't mean leaving the party completely…but your mother has _excellent_ taste in coats…"

He winks. I shudder. "We came for the party."

"You hate these things…"

"When did you become Mr Observant?"

He steps back as if I've just slapped him, the hand on my back retreating quickly into his sleeve. "Rose…" It's the same voice; the one that whispers to me in my dreams…in my nightmares, surrounded by tiny grains of silver sand and two words written in gold, shimmering Time.

I shake my head. He isn't _Him_.

"We fight too much." The statement is blunt, no nicely rounded edges or beating around the proverbial bush. I almost break. _Almost._ Because I realise that that would be exactly how _He_ would say it. Only it's not. I focus my attention back on the stranger across the room, a small shiver running down my spine as he moves away from me. I seem to be feeling the cold a lot more these days.


	2. II: The Golden Floor

_**II: The Golden Floor**_

_Tell me that you want to dance,__  
><em>_I want to feel your pulse on mine. __  
><em>_Just treat me like a stolen glance,__  
><em>_To yourself.__  
><em>_  
><em>_A dark shape on a golden floor,__  
><em>_A sleeping planet with a molten core._

_From above we'd cut a slow eight shape,__  
><em>_And much more._

…

"Since there's no napkin or glass on the counter in front of it, I'll assume that no one is sitting in this seat, however, I'm always being told that I come across as rude in polite society so I'd assume that the customary question at this point is, _'Is this seat taken?'_" It was the same man I had been watching earlier.

"Um. No, go ahead…"

"Thank you."

There's silence for a moment and I desperate try to think of a way to fill it because there's something about this stranger that intrigues me, but he gets there before me.

"Bored with the party, then? Or just with your boyfriend?"

"Both…" And then, "How did you know?"

"You're a beautiful woman slumped over a martini. It didn't take a giant leap of deduction to work it out. I'd say you'd been together for a year, but the shine is wearing off."

"Sorry?"

"The gemstone in your necklace is a real diamond. Since it's set into a necklace, it means it's your birthstone and only someone who loved you would think to buy you something like that. Not your mother because it's fairly new and if she was going to buy it she would have done years ago, so a friend or a boyfriend, then. A friend wouldn't spend that much even if they were your best friend, so it has to be a boyfriend, then. It's fairly new so the relationship must be quite fresh, but he'd only buy something that expensive when he was beginning to feel insecure so you must have been together for at least a year."

I'm taken aback. "Ok, I'm impressed…but why would you think I'm bored with him?"

"It's a diamond necklace," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah. What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's a diamond necklace, so it must have been an expensive gift and should logically be important to you, but the diamond has lost some of its lustre and the silver of the chain is dull, so it mustn't be regularly cleaned, which means that you forget about it and, logically, the person who gave it to you. You also don't fiddle with it. Usually when someone important gives a woman a piece of jewellery, she twirls it around in her fingers. It's a subconscious trigger when you have a pleasant thought about that person, but you haven't touched it all night."

"All night? How do you know?"

"I observe things," he replies coolly.

"Who _are_ you?" The words come out ruder than intended.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes…" There's a pause as he watches me process the strange name. "Say what you like. I've heard it all before."

"Rose Tyler."

"Excuse me?"

"That's my name."

"Oh. Pretty." I swallow the rest of my drink, unceremoniously smacking the glass back down onto the bar. "Don't you just _despise_ these society galas?" he says, his voice low. Somehow, I understand that it's not a question I have to answer because he can read it in my face.

"Are you here with anyone?" So much for nonchalance…

"Yes," he says with a sense of finality.

"Oh."

"My brother." He pulls a face. "Mycroft."

"Wow. Unusual name."

"Is it?" he asks, as if it's something he's never considered before.

I change tack. "So if you hate these things, why are you here?"

"He seems to think that I'm depressed because several of the strings on my violin are broken. Personally I believe he can't stand the things so he brings me here as a form of punishment for something. Can't think what though. I'm an absolute angel."

I giggle. Another pause, and then, "Would you like to dance, Rose Tyler?"

I sigh, holding out my hand for him to take. "I thought you'd never ask…"

The music feels dull and melancholic but somehow, my hand in his feels totally comfortable and I relax into the dance easily.

His breath tickles the wisps of hair around my ear as he says, "It's been a long time since I did something like this." I lift my head up to scan his face, but it's unreadable, much like _His_ had been. I catch his double watching me from over Sherlock's shoulder; I stare right back. Defiant.

I settle my head back onto Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in the warmth and unfamiliar smell that makes me feel so comfortable; "I don't want to go home tonight." I mutter, more to myself than to him.

"Then don't."

I look at him, and I just _know_.


	3. III: Set Down Your Glass

_**III: Set Down Your Glass**_

_My __jumper __tears,__  
><em>_As __we __take __it __off.__  
><em>_And __you __say __you__'__ll __sew __me __good __as __new __and __I __know __you __will.__  
><em>_  
><em>_And __I__'__m __shaken __then __I__'__m __still,__  
><em>_When __your __eyes __meet __mine __I __lose __simple __skills.__  
><em>_Like __to __tell __you __all __I __want __is __now._

…

We don't say anything to each other as the taxi weaves effortlessly through the straggling late-night London traffic. I don't think we even look at each other, but that's ok because I can hear him breathing and that's enough for me. I don't want to talk, to discuss, or procrastinate. Just this once, I want to _feel_ and _do_. I haven't wanted that for a long time.

We arrive at Baker Street and I look up at the Victorian buildings and the gleaming number on the black door in front of us that proclaims '221'. He leads me inside, stopping at the door marked with a brass 'B', slotting a key into the Yale lock and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from reaching out to touch his hand. We still don't speak as I follow him inside his flat and he puts deliberate space between us. The silence should calm me, but in reality, it riles me up more than any speech could. The only sounds I can hear are his deliberate breathing and his feet pacing across the room. In a second, his head snaps up and he walks towards me with a determination I haven't seen since my time aboard The Crucible. His hands fly to my wrists, pinning them above my head as his lips finally, blissfully, crash against mine in a desperate bid for control over something that we haven't quite defined yet. Maybe we're rushing into something, but his lips on mine aren't clumsy or wet; they're fire, and they're ice, and somewhere in the midst of the chaos that my thoughts have become, I think that I can smell leather for a moment. Only this time, I let my imagination consume me. I gasp out for breath, clutching at the precious oxygen from the air as his lips move with carefully detached precision down my neck and along my collarbone. He is no longer holding my wrists, but even in their freedom, I still find them scrabbling for some purchase on the smooth mahogany of the door; anything to keep myself upright as his clever tongue explores my body.

All too suddenly, there is nothing, merely cool air settling into the hot trail of his kisses on my skin. I open my eyes to see him staring at me as if deep in thought. Self-consciousness sweeps over me like a white-hot blush and I smooth my dress down, pulling it a little further down my legs than it's really meant to go.

"Did I get anything wrong?" he asks, and I'm beyond puzzled.

"W-what?" I stammer, still wondering what the hell is going on.

"The necklace, the boyfriend, the martini…" he says, as if it should make perfect sense. "Did I get anything wrong?"

"You mean you were thinking about psycho-analysis while you were doing…_that_?" I gesture wildly, completely incredulous.

He looks at me in that unabashed way that he does so well and simply says, "Yes. Did I get anything wrong?"

"Yes," I mutter, a little too viciously than I truly mean to. "There was never any shine between us."

There is silence for a moment; the pause hanging in the stuffy air like a promise until he finally speaks. "Good. That's an error I can live with." Within a second, his lips are on mine again and I can almost taste the victory of his latest assessment on his tongue; it just serves to remind me how right I was that every man is the same territorial bastard.

I take a moment in the haze to reflect on kissing. It can be soft, hard, demanding, passionate, yielding; you name it, a kiss can embody it. And yet with Sherlock, no kiss feels the same, no kiss has the same emotion or urgency as the last one. The only link between his lips and my skin is the burning trail he leaves along it. It almost makes me laugh out loud at the idea that even his kisses are an enigma.

His hands across my skin are light, gentle as if he is almost afraid of breaking me. The most feathery of his touches sends me into a furore of sensations, threatening to weaken me and give over all my power to him. I pull him back, pushing his long black overcoat off his shoulders, followed closely by his dinner jacket, as I marvel at the beautifully hidden planes of his chest and the slight, sculpted shoulders that are to be seen only by me. I revel in the possessive nature of it all, this act of rebellion with a stranger who seems so familiar to me that I almost hear the whir of a screwdriver and catch the faint scent of bananas. Similar, but not the same; it's more comfortable this way. _Healing_. Like a drug that I could never get a prescription for. A placebo.

We never talk; not as he unzips the back of my scarlet silk dress, letting the material fall carelessly into his waiting hands, not as I remove his shirt, ripping off two buttons in the process. The moves are just like our dance earlier in the evening – effortless and familiar, as if we have practiced the moves so many times before, ready for this very performance. He slips the back of my bra out of its hooks letting it fall to the floor along with my dress and I suddenly wonder why I don't feel exposed to this stranger's eyes, but all that is forgotten when he cups my breasts in his soft palms, rubbing the nipples gently as I begin to think that I must have forgotten what surrender felt like until that moment. I give myself over to the moment and the touch of his hand, reaching my own out to stroke down his naked chest. If I close my eyes, I can imagine whomever I want, and I somehow don't feel guilty for it. It's quietly freeing.

I open my eyes to find the piercing grey-blue of his boring into me. The intensity of his gaze shakes me from my pretence and suddenly I'm caught in the moment again and the movements seem more pronounced, less controlled, as he pushes me onto the bed and tears my knickers off, burying his dark curly head between my thighs until I feel the heat of his tongue against my clit, licking experimentally and curving upwards, making me let out noises I didn't know I was capable of. The frustration and bitterness that surrounds my everyday existence comes to a head because of this wonderful chance to escape and suddenly my body is tensing and I come silently, my mouth open, my face wet with the tears I didn't realise I was crying.

Reciprocation seems moot at this point; I owe this man nothing, and he expects nothing from me as he peels off his purple boxers and pushes his cock inside me. Taking and giving, like a contract that we have yet to sign off on; our souls for one night of escape. But how can I give this up after just one taste of such exquisite freedom? His hips roll above mine, thrusting carelessly, roughly even, as if this is his one chance to completely lose control. I feel a flush running through my veins and almost as soon, his thrusts become more erratic, giving themselves over to whatever nature has in mind for us. We come together, each shouting a different name that neither of us wants to own up to or explain. It's enough.

He collapses on top of me and then rolls away. I lay my head on his slender chest, settling to sleep above the rise and fall of his breathing as he collects himself and it calms. My mind is foggy with the sluggish spread of exhaustion and, a lazy smile warming my face, I lace my fingers between his, whispering, "_That_ should have been our first time…"

He lifts my chin with the index finger of the hand he extracts from mine, his expression sharp and quizzical, despite his obvious tiredness. "It was," he says slowly, deliberately, his eyes focusing on mine before he turns his head away. I lay awake for hours, dozing in and out of consciousness, ticking my words over in my mind. I understand perfectly…but I wish I didn't…


	4. IV: Crack The Shutters

**IV: Crack the Shutters**

_It's been minutes, it's been days,  
>It's been all I will remember.<br>Happy lost in your hair,  
>And the cold side of the pillow.<em>

_Your hills and valleys,_  
><em>Are mapped by my intrepid fingers.<em>  
><em>And in a naked slumber,<em>  
><em>I dream all this again.<em>

…

The room is blinding as always, the stagnant artificial sunlight so much brighter than any on Earth. I wake up from my sated sleep and turn over, my hand seeking warmth on the cold pillow next to me. There he is, my miracle, my incredible impossibility lying there next to me, naked and tousled. I stretch my arm out, twining my fingers through that crazy mop of tangles, still slightly sticky from the liberal amounts of hair gel that he loves so much. Almost as much as he loves me.

He stirs in his sleep, mumbling in some unknown, forbidden language. He turns over, swooping one of his slim arms over me, curling it under my body until I can't help but slide along the bed towards him. The sheets feel like silk, passing along my skin like a stream of water; the patches of our midnight sweat cooling the space between us with the memories of our perfectly complete connection. Body and soul.

There is always a frisson of excitement, some almost indescribably rush of electricity whenever I can feel the full length of his body against mine, his warm skin brushing against my own; a safe cover from the outside world. He smiles at me… No, it's not a smile, it's a grin, the cheekiest grin I have ever seen; that perfect combination of joy and mischief that he does so well, only this time there is none of the usual unfathomable sadness in his eyes…

It's then that I realise that it is all just a dream. It doesn't even happen when he touches me. There's a part of me, deep down in my sedated consciousness that knows, I think, and really there is a burning question that I have been desperately trying to ignore; _'If I love him so much, why is there that feeling that this is the first time I have felt content for an eternity?'_

Everything changes so fast from then on, as if the scene before it had passed in slow motion; a painful reminder of everything I will never have, buoyed up by the inevitable swoop back into reality. The worst of it is that I know that for one second, I believed the lie of my subconscious and I let myself forget that I could have chosen that path a long time ago but I let him make the wrong decision for me.

The bed around me feels cold, empty, the sheets pooling around my naked waist like oil on water; silky, soft, and almost not touching me at all. I sigh and turn over, tangling my ankles in the harsh white of the cotton as I remember where I am. The man next to me has a very different mop of hair, black and curly, and he doesn't look at me like he's loved me for all of my life. His expression is hard and cold, a clear sign for me to pick up and leave. Naturally. I never thought I would become the cliché of _The Girl From The Estate_; loose living, whoring around, waking up in a stranger's bed. Then I remember why I'm really there…and I shudder at the realisation that this was always an inevitability.


	5. V: The Lightening Strike

**V: The Lightening Strike**

_Now it's found us,__  
><em>_Like I have found you.__  
><em>_I don't want to run,__  
><em>_Just overwhelm me.__  
><em>_  
><em>_What if this storm ends,__  
><em>_And leaves us nothing?__  
><em>_Except a memory,__  
><em>_A distant echo._

…

_He hates these society balls with a passion. They always culminate in him having to perform his 'party piece' to hundreds of inebriated idiots who don't have even have an inkling into the intricacies of his skills. 'Ooh, it's the freak! Come on, tell us all how unhappy my marriage is and how you know that my brother's an alcoholic adulterer!" He wishes all their tiny idiot brains would just shut up and leave him in peace._

_This is why, more often than not, he finds himself at the bar, ordering glass after glass of something sticky that smells faintly of bathroom cleaner and burns his throat as it slips down. He could probably distinguish the subtly different nuances of the various types of refined ethanol in his cocktail if he could be bothered, but frankly, he figured he was probably just wasting his time. After all, who would listen, really?_

_And then there's her. The first woman to spark his interest since his train-wreck of a something-and-nothing with Molly._

_He sees her at these things all the time, always arguing with some puppy-eyed, crazy-haired idiot, who has to be her boyfriend even though there's no possible conceivable reason why that should be the case. She always looks so beautiful, but she wears it in a way that tells everyone around her that it's forced and that she is unhappy with the effort that the world seems to expect her to go to for its expectations. He loves it; it's so much more intriguing than the air-headed society belles that his brother keeps forcing him to engage in conversation with. For some reason, they seem to find his talents 'sexy', but she never appears to be interested, which just succeeds in infuriating him all the more. She's quite right though, it isn't a gift to go weak at the knees for. It is something to be revered, respected, something to inspire awe. She understands this, and that just makes her all the more intriguing to him._

_Finally, he notices her sitting alone at the bar, unadorned by her fawning, apologetic lover. He takes his chance, dropping the hand of some heiress – Mindy, or Dolly, or something equally uninspiring and ending with 'y' - who Mycroft expects him to play nice with and, ignoring her noise of indignation, he walks purposefully over to the barstool next to Her, adopting an air of feigned nonchalance which he knows that she will see through immediately._

"_Since there's no napkin or glass on the counter in front of it, I'll assume that no one is sitting in this seat, however, I'm always being told that I come across as rude in polite society so I'd assume that the customary question at this point is, _'Is this seat taken?'_" It's a rude line to start with, but he knows that it's a wise choice. She doesn't need to be mollified._

"_Um. No, go ahead…"_

"_Thank you."_

_There's silence for a moment and he wonders whether to chance the risky question he really wants to ask._

"_Bored with the party, then? Or just with your boyfriend?"_

"_Both…" And then, "How did you know?"_

_He almost laughs. "You're a beautiful woman slumped over a martini. It didn't take a giant leap of deduction to work it out. I'd say you'd been together for a year, but the shine is wearing off." It's more hope than his usual line of educated guesswork._

"_Sorry?"_

_He takes a deep breath, readying himself to launch into his favourite game, hoping that she will join in. "The gemstone in your necklace is a real diamond. Since it's set into a necklace, it means it's your birthstone and only someone who loved you would think to buy you something like that. Not your mother because it's fairly new and if she was going to buy it she would have done years ago, so a friend or a boyfriend, then. A friend wouldn't spend that much even if they were your best friend, so it has to be a boyfriend, then. It's fairly new so the relationship must be quite fresh, but he'd only buy something that expensive when he was beginning to feel insecure so you must have been together for at least a year."_

_She looks at him carefully, as if he is something new, and yet familiar. "Ok, I'm impressed…but why would you think I'm bored with him?"_

"_It's a diamond necklace," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world._

"_Yeah. What's that got to do with anything?"_

"_It's a diamond necklace, so it must have been an expensive gift and should logically be important to you, but the diamond has lost some of its lustre and the silver of the chain is dull, so it mustn't be regularly cleaned, which means that you forget about it and, logically, the person who gave it to you. You also don't fiddle with it. Usually when someone important gives a woman a piece of jewellery, she twirls it around in her fingers. It's a subconscious trigger when you have a pleasant thought about that person, but you haven't touched it all night."_

"_All night? How do you know?"_

_He pauses for a second, considering his options, knowing that he has been caught out. Eventually, he finds his answer. "I observe things."_

"_Who _are_ you?" It's rude, but somehow instead of grating, it fits her._

"_My name is Sherlock Holmes…" He pauses as he watches her process the strange name. Then comes the defence. "Say what you like. I've heard it all before."_

_"Rose Tyler." Maybe he hadn't heard it all…_

"_Excuse me?"_

"_That's my name."_

"_Oh. Pretty."_ _It's a pathetic reply, but he knows that even so, it won't end the conversation. _

_The rest of the night flashed by in a blur of dancing and suddenly, she's naked and in his bed, her beautiful blonde hair tossing across the pillows as she tries to keep her grip of her senses while his tongue explores her._

"That_ should've been our first time." He doesn't expect it to, but it stings. _

_He really didn't know what he had gotten himself into and it worried him. She was far more complicated – far more fucked up – than he had first believed and now he was trapped, because he had been hers from the second she told him her name; such a simple thing but such an unexpected reaction. It seemed that unexpected was her middle name. She was difficult for him to read and that terrified him._

_He was beginning to wonder if he was in too deep…_


	6. VI: Lifeboats

**A/N: Sorry that it's taken a while to update again, I was in the midst of production and exam stresses and so it brought on a nasty bought of writer's block. I'm hoping that this hasn't damaged poor little Sherlock too much! Reviews are love and I promise a few more prompt updates from now on (for a little while, at least) because the next chapter is half-finished and the next two after that are done and ready to go!**

**A/N Take Two: I should probably also mention/apologise for the fact that I made the mistake of watching 'Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows' earlier today before writing this chapter and this is now making me worry that I've made Sherlock sound all Victorian and Robert Downey Jr.-esque... (Not that RDJr would be a _bad_ thing to happen in fic, but he's the wrong fandom and whenever I listen to him, I just picture Tony Stark being sex on legs...)**

**...**

**_VI: Lifeboats_**

_Sing out, sing out, __  
><em>_The silence only eats us __from the inside out. __  
><em>_I meant no harm,__  
><em>_But I only get to say __these words too late._

…

_He had never said it before; those three tiny words that had seemed so insignificant to his superior mind. They always seemed so frivolous and unnecessary to him, just a method of placating someone who you did not wish to argue with. A concept with which John seemed to be perfectly adept. It had only been with Her that he had considered such a foolish romantic endeavour, but as always, he had been too late. Too busy with matters that he had deemed more important to tell her how he really felt. Or perhaps it was simply that fact that he was feeling anything that he could not analyse to within an inch of his life that had made him hold out and wait until she was gone forever before he had worked up the wherewithal to say something meaningful._

_As he laid there, the faux-satin sheets rumpled and full of promise, he ticked these possibilities over in his mind. Sleep had eluded him, as always, and as such he was struggling to fill his mind with anything other but questions of Her. He knew that Rose was under no illusions as to her position in his life, in the same way that he was similarly acquainted with his role in hers. They were both mediocre replacements for something that neither of them could bring themselves to voice. For him, it had been confirmed from their very first night together. A hungry tangle of bodies and sweat and pleasure that ended with the bliss of relaxation for the first time in over a year. He had felt spent and satiated, calm with the knowledge that this connection was just for now, but was utterly and completely in his control…until she spoke._

_"_That_ should have been our first time."_

_He had replayed the moment when she shattered his shakily built illusion of calm in his mind far too many times for him to be comfortable, and still he knows that she was not talking to him, that she was never talking to him no matter how many times they connected. She would always be wishing for something else – someone else – that could be provided to her; an uncomfortable reminder of previous mistakes that he wanted more than anything to erase from his expansive memory._

_The fact remained, however, that his nightmares had been greatly reduced since her presence in his life had become a frequent occurrence. He wanted more than anything to save this strange creature that he kept finding himself drawn to over again because in some small, impossible ways, she was saving him. She was still an enigma to him, but he knew that somehow, he could crack the code. He listened to her while she talked in her sleep; nonsense that he did not understand, about a crucible, a clone, dusty white sand, and a fading blue light in the distance, wrapped up in the sound of the universe. She sounded insane. No. Not insane. Broken. Like a wind-up toy that had lost its key, reduced to playing the same three notes at an ever-decreasing speed._

_Somehow he knew that his plan would not really work for her in the way that she needed it to, but a tiny selfish voice in the back of his mind told him that he had to experiment for his own sake. He looked at her, sleeping next to him, and the golden hair morphed into a chocolate brown, lengthening and curling at the ends; the round face with its smooth cheekbones thinned out, becoming longer and sharper, the soft full pout becoming thinner too. He woke her up gently but as her eyelids snapped open, he saw that the hazelnut eyes that he had become accustomed to were darker somehow, deeper and full of pain. He was looking at Her. Molly. And suddenly he couldn't bite back the words any longer._

_"I love you."_

_A tear crept out onto a more rounded cheek and when the swimming eyes opened again, they were hazelnut. Molly was gone, and he had damaged her replacement._


	7. VII: Take Back The City

**VII: Take Back The City**

_Tell me you never wanted more than this, __  
><em>_And I will stop talking now.__  
><em>_One perfect partner, one eternal kiss,__  
><em>_Whoa._

…

I never expected a declaration of love. That wasn't what this was for. I didn't want commitment, not when this – whatever it is – first started. I just wanted a taste of something I'd forgotten. The first time it happened, it was an accident; just a desperate waltz with normality. It had been nothing, just loneliness and dancing, but it had still been _something_. I'm anything but stupid. I know deep down that the Clone and myself are…_inevitable_, that this absence is just a slight hitch in the ultimate plan, but that night and the nights that followed had never been part of the plan. This isn't 'forever', all rose petals and chocolate and silk, or any of those things that I have forgotten or never really knew; but it's _safe_. Safer than I've been in a long time, safer in our skin, in his arms. Strange that there can be more safety in nakedness. We poured ourselves into each other; our sadness at the loss of so much, our fear of the vast unknown that stretches out before us, our anger. _Anger._ Oh, I have never been so angry, a huge fiery bubble of it ripping through my throat, tearing me apart. I cried the whole night after.

I hate the word 'adultery'. How can anything be cheating when you've been cheating yourself with someone you could never love? Even though the Clone claims to love me, I never wanted him so surely this is kinder. Telling him that I've found someone else. Only I'm not sure if I have… Sherlock is almost too close to _Him_ for me to feel totally comfortable. I know all too well that I love that unpredictability that they both have, that exciting sense of never knowing what is going to happen next, but maybe I should be tired of my desperate need for that frisson of uncertainty by now. Maybe I should have grown out of the stupid adolescent need for drama, for the ambiguity of the chase. Seemingly not.

Sherlock makes me feel again, and even though those feelings are fucked up and bitter, at least I'm not empty anymore, at least I'm not searching for the next adventure, for the next way back. I've lived in the past for so long, willing myself to live every day like I might find a luminous yellow plastic arm in my flat and I might finally smell leather again, even if it means sacrificing another coffee table. But now… Now, I don't know anymore. I'm not waking up with a desperation to hear the soft whoosh of engines or waiting for his insane chatter to permeate my mind. I almost feel free.

Except I'm not. I'm just waiting for something else; the tap of his fingers on his phone, the crack of a gunshot, the clink of a teacup, the scraping of his violin. I want to be with this man every moment of every day because he makes me feel alive. It's a craving, an addiction. I'm so lost in it that I can hardly stand it. Maybe I love him. Maybe I'm obsessed. Whatever it is, it's like a drug; slowly taking over my entire body until I'm consumed by it. I never want it to end. I want him to want me like this too.


	8. VIII: The Sunlight Through The Flags

**VIII: The Sunlight Through the Flags**

_These accidents of faith and nature,__  
><em>_They tend to stick in the spokes of you.__  
><em>_But every now and then the trend bucks,__  
><em>_And you're repaired by more than glue._

…

I don't really notice it happening, this change in me that seems so obvious to everyone else. I almost actively try to hide it. I've always thought it strange that one person can change the way you see the world, but Sherlock has shown me just how wide and beautiful this universe is, when I had been so keen to shut down and pretend that it didn't exist. I was always so ready to ignore mundane everyday things that I had always taken for granted before _Him_, and then never thought worth considering when I could look at emerald skylines and amethyst waves. He's taught me to appreciate the smallest detail, even when he's so damn bitter about it all. He never misses a trick. He just knows people. The way I used to before I was broken. I miss that.

Seemingly, however, the clone (or John, as I should probably call him) is observant too and he catches it one day when I come back from a particularly exploratory afternoon spent with Sherlock. I hear the metal click into the mahogany frame of the door, and it's then that he pounces.

"You look nice, where have you been?"

"Out." I mutter.

"You've seemed different recently…"

And that's it. No more to be said, he lets it go. Until later…

We're sitting on the sofa, a little closer than we would normally. I would claim that it's a need for a more comfortable sitting position that drives me to it, but honestly, I feel bad for how I've treated him, I suppose. It was never his choice to be dumped here with me, it was never his job to fix _me_; it was always the other way around. I didn't really do a brilliant job of that, either…

The TV is on the blink, so we sit in restful silence, the book on his lap long forgotten, those glasses that I'd loved so much perched precariously on that mop of unruly brown hair. I don't really know what it is that possesses me – maybe the memory of _Him_ - but something makes me reach out and run my fingertips through the messy sideburns, tickling his cheek. He looks at me and I snap my hand back, feeling the unexpected electricity skitter across my skin in a white-hot flash.

The silence suddenly becomes uncomfortable, the memory of the touch tangible in the air between us as I reach for my only defence; total shutdown. He pushes his own; make a joke, lighten the situation. He does it when he's desperate.

"I always knew that I was too hot to handle…"

The corners of my mouth twitch upwards into a smirk at the sheer absurd correctness of his comment, and he pounces on it without hesitation.

"Is that a smile?"

"No." I snap quickly, desperate to regain control of the situation.

"That was a smile…"

I sigh. "Don't. Don't push it."

"Why not?" he asks.

I ignore him, letting out a tiny 'huh' of laughter. "Do you know I never actually kissed him?" I don't know what makes me say it, but it's out of my mouth before I realise that it will hurt him.

"What?"

I'm committed to it now; maybe it will make me safer if I push him away. "Well, I didn't. It was Cassandra and then you. I never kissed _Him_. Wish I had."

He gets up suddenly, his feet thumping the floor as he paces the room before turning and rounding on me. "Do you have to?"

"What?"

"Every time you realise we're having a moment like any normal couple, you always have to mention _Him_! How are we supposed to move on if you won't let either of us forget him, Rose?" he exclaims. "You know, sometimes I wonder why you ever let me stay with you…"

There is a pause while I try to find the right words but somehow, the anger of it all just bubbles over, and before I can stop myself, I am telling him everything I'd always promised myself I never would. "There was never any choice for me. He was going to leave me here regardless and I thought that it would hurt less if I had you because…_you look so much like him…_But you're like a blurred photograph compared to him. I _can't_ love you! Sometimes I can't even _look_ at you! It hurts too much…"

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know." Silence. "But _I_ never had a choice either. He made me, full of anger and revenge and bloodlust…_That_ I could understand, but there was this sinking feeling that was worse than all of those. _Love._ I love you, but I've never understood why. You didn't heal _me_. If it'd been left to you, you would have broken me, Rose. I've had to fix myself because I've known all along that you'll never love me the way you love him. But it's something that I'll always have to live with because his love is something that will last forever, so until I take my last breath I'll love you. And I think it will kill me."

There is silence. Neither of us looks at each other. It's too much, too fresh, too deep a wound for either of us to cope with. I get up, pick up my jacket from the chair and open the door. It closes with a resounding click. It all feels so final.


	9. IX: Disaster Button

**IX: Disaster Button**

_Hit that button there,__  
><em>_The one that just says 'wrong'.__  
><em>_We'll lose our lives through all our favourite songs._

…

We're broken. That much I can tell. Too much has been said, and neither of us can take any of it back, and we don't want to. It's good, though, this new understanding of where we truly are; we'd never vocalised it before now, there was always just this silent understanding that whatever we are – _were_ – will never really work, however much we clutch at it. But now it's good. I'm free. And I'm _his_.

I don't really know how I ended up here, standing outside this imposing gleaming black-varnished door. The numbers are branded into my mind, burning across my vision, and I wonder for a second if two-hundred-and-twenty-one is going to be the only thing I ever see from now on. The brass knocker above the letterbox shimmers dully in the fading London light, filled with smog and broken promises. _Toxic._ I shudder and reach out but the door is already opening. A woman steps out, tired but pretty; brown hair slung up in a loose ponytail, curling at the ends, chocolate eyes that are darker than my own but somehow appear to be just as dead. There is the soft fading yellow of a bruise along her left cheek. A handprint, I can almost see the fingerprints along her skin. As I study her, he appears at the door, his expression strained, his posture set in forced nonchalance but before he can let himself close the door and let go of whatever emotion he is holding back, it breaks free of him and he takes a step towards her saying one word, a name. _Molly_. She doesn't look back.

It's only after she has rounded the corner that he sees me, but even so, it feels like he is looking straight through me. His gaze is vague, his expression changeable, as if he is trying to control whatever emotion it is that is threatening to contort that beautiful face of his. I take a step towards him, following the short path to his doorstep, but he doesn't move. He just keeps staring after her, as if she is still there. As I draw closer, I can see that his lips are parted slightly, mouthing something incomprehensible that I dare to think might be her name. It's one of the few times in my life when I have wished to be wrong. He leans down to kiss me, but it's perfunctory; just some twisted form of a bad habit that he's trying to give up. A vice – like smoking – that debilitates him, leaving him unsatisfied and guilty. I think it breaks whatever is left of my heart.

It seems that I've swapped one silent argument for another. But I step past the imposing mahogany door anyway. I suppose I must be a sucker for punishment, even if I'm not sure what I've done to deserve it.

…

"So you left him." It's not a question.

"Yes. What was she doing here?" We walk into his bedroom. I ignore the clutter as always. It doesn't feel homely.

He ignores it. "I thought so. You looked determined. It was only a matter of time. You just couldn't handle it."

I open my mouth to speak but he cuts across my unspoken indignation. "Oh, don't look at me like that. It was too much for you. That's why you came to me. You can pretend all you want that you're doing this for some sort of release, some 'getting out of my skin' sort of adventure. We both know it's a lie. You need me, Rose."

I open my mouth again, but there's no point; Sherlock Holmes is talking so everyone else had better shut up and listen. It makes me sick.

"So what happens now? You think I'm going to replace him? Fill some hole in your aching heart and raging hormones? I'm not him. I don't want to be. I'm not cut out to be domestic, it's not me."

"No."

"So…what? What, Rose? Why are you here? You leave him and come running straight to me. Why?"

This is too much and everything finally comes spilling out again. Verbal incontinence. It's becoming something of a habit for me.

"Look, don't take your personal crap out on me! You're just pissed off because 'Little Miss Domestic Abuse' didn't want to stick around! I saw the bruise on her cheek, Sherlock. You think I want that? You just can't handle that you have _feelings_. Real, proper, _human_ emotions like everyone else, and you hate it because it makes you normal and that's something you've always dreaded being. You wanted me because I was an uncomplicated fuck. I was unhappy, and it was easy for you to psycho-analyse me, which gives you some pathetic sense of one-upmanship. Well I don't want it, Sherlock. I'm in this for simplicity too. You were the one who told me that you _love_ me. Or have you forgotten that?"

The silence between us is heated, some almost-tangible electricity hanging in the air between us. We both breathe heavily, fully aware that tactful honesty isn't either of our strong points_. _He crosses the room in two strides, pressing his lips against mine and tumbling us onto the mussed sheets. I only wonder for a second if _she_ had a hand in messing them up. The spark of jealousy is too much. I shut it out…for now, at least.

…

His fingertips skitter across the bare skin of my arm as we lie side by side, resolutely not looking at each other. The calm is anything but peaceful; so many unspoken things jostling to be said. It's really just a question of whose resolve will break first.

"He let me break her. That's what kills me. The bastard let me break her…and I can't even blame him for it." His voice is bitter and I'm taken aback; I've never heard him talk like this…but then again, I've never really heard him talk. Not normally, not _humanly_. I wonder if this is what it would have been like with _Him_…to watch him shatter and to be unable to pick up the pieces. Humanity has never been a strong point in either of them. Maybe that's why I'm so inexplicably drawn to them; maybe I just enjoy the challenge, breaking down the fortress walls, understanding their alienation.

But the moment is over almost as quickly as it began and I never find out who 'He' is. His long, slim fingers trace lines along my leg and suddenly he's making me writhe again, his fingers moving with that painfully detached sense of concentration that he wears so well and that I just can't seem to resist. It brings me home, even as it drives me further away. As his fingers dance across my over-sensitive skin, I realise that I want to touch him but I can't, because this moment is his and he's lost in another woman, just as I'm dreaming of another man with the same long, slim fingers and careful demeanour. I need his arrogance, I need it to bring me crashing back to Earth because I can't stay in this fantasy of memories and still stay sane. I don't love him, in the same way that he doesn't love me; we just need each other, we need this moment of loss and we need to recreate it again and again because it's the only way we can live with ourselves.

Sometimes I hate him. But that's ok; I think the feeling is mutual.


	10. X: Please Just Take These Photos

**X: Please Just Take These Photos From My Hand**

_I read your name under words in your elegant hand you probably don't mean now,__  
><em>_I fold the letter and think of a million and one things that I could have done different._

…

Usually, I stayed well into the late-morning, soaking up the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains and revelling in the memories of the previous night. Not today, though. Today, I know that I have to leave. I'd spent a sleepless night, tossing every fucked-up thought around in my head, wondering what I was going to do and coming up with only one plausible answer. The second the sun starts to filter into the room, playing around the sunbeams, I creep out of bed, picking up any of my clothes that he had callously thrown around the room, whilst also noticing that his own were carefully folded and placed on a chair in the corner of the room. I'm tempted to steal a shirt; to inhale his scent for as long as it lasts, but I know that cold turkey is safer, and much, much better for all three of us, caught up in this twisted mess that I've managed to tangle for us all.

As the door clicks shut behind me, I wonder briefly if this is a mistake; going backwards after struggling for so long to walk miles ahead. But, as I curl my hand around the doorknob again, flexing my fingers around the cold brass, memories flash across my mind, reminding me of all the reasons to stay and all the reasons to leave and never come back to this beautifully imposing black door. The vision of myself in those memories may have looked older, seemed wiser, more worn-down by life, and I may have appeared to be classier and much less desperate, but the Rose Tyler I see in those pictures in my head now is still the silly immature nineteen-year-old girl that I had been when I had first encountered that dust-soaked leather and petrol blue-stained wood. I have made my decision. No going back.

I grew up a lot in that last night. The old, pathetic Rose Tyler would have stayed under those indigo faux-satin sheets for as long as she could; desperate for some sad sense of recognition. Sometimes, I had waited all day for the merest nod, or perfunctory hand gesture. Well, not me. Not anymore. On the way back to my flat, I plan my words carefully, all the while crumbling away the lovesick teenager who has been ruling my head and heart for far too long. I refuse to give in to sentimentality, or anger, or sadness. I want nothing more but to move on. To live, not just to go on surviving.

Turning the key in the lock, I run inside, closing the door behind me and sliding down the cool wood panelling, succumbing to tears for what I promise myself will be the last time. When I feel hollow again, I pull myself up and wander over to the nearest desk, finding a pen and some paper and preparing to write the most difficult letter of my life.

…

_Dear S,_

_ Well, here we are. That one place you always knew we'd end up at. 'Broken' isn't the word for us because we were never close to 'fixed' or 'whole' in the first place, but this is a symbol of honesty, of the end of us lying to each other, and to ourselves, because these past months have all just been one long drawn-out lie. We didn't want each other. We were just lost and lonely and needed the idea of one another. Well, not anymore. We both deserve better than we can give to each other. We both deserve happiness, but more importantly, we both deserve a partner who isn't as selfish as we've been with each other. _

_ But, as this is me saying that we're over, that it's over, then you deserve the truth; the reason that I could never, and would never vocalise to you before now. The reason why I needed you. The truth is that you were a replacement for a man that I loved and lost a long time ago, when I was still a silly little girl who believed in forever and fairytales. An impossible man. A man who I never got bored of, who could change his face and demeanour all in a split-second. A man called 'The Doctor', who took me away in his magical machine and showed me his version of forever. It all sounds too fantastical to be real; it sounds like some playtime fantasy that I made up in my own head and could never simulate in real life, but honestly, no one could ever make this story up. It's too unreal, too fantastical, too unbelievably impossible and heartbreaking. _

_I am from another world, a parallel to this one, and I lost that brilliant man on a deserted beach on this world's version of Norway almost six years ago now. After that, I threw myself into finding a way to break down the barriers between this world and my own in the vain hope of finding him again. When I did, there was a perfect moment when I believed that I would finally get the happily ever after that I had been so desperately searching for, but in the end, my consolation prize was a duplicate, a clone of the man I had loved so completely that I was willing to risk my life to see him one last time. From then on, I was a shadow of my former self, curling up into myself and pretending that nothing mattered anymore, when really all I wanted to do was hurl myself at this unfamiliar sky and pray that it would swallow me up into our universe. Eventually, I even grew to hate him a little bit, but never so much that I could speak his name to anyone. It became like a private signal of warmth to myself; something I could whisper to myself in the darkness that would give me hope and strength. But it wasn't enough…and that's why I needed you so badly._

_You would find it a little funny, maybe, if you knew how similar the two of you are. The mile-a-minute explanations, the despairing intellect, the love for the thrill of the chase, the enigmatic nature of the both of you. It's the reason why I was so inexplicably drawn to you that night. I wanted you because you were the closest I could get to him. I never loved you, that much you already know. I think sometimes, I even hated you, because you were all I wanted but I knew the second I first saw you that I could never have you in the way I wanted to have you. You were never going to be my forever, my fairytale, and maybe that's why I have to leave now. Maybe I have to get out because I've realised that fairytales are impossible and don't exist. Maybe I finally took off my rose-tinted spectacles. Maybe I finally grew up._

_Whatever the reason, I know that you fixed me somehow, stuck me back together, made me whole again in some strange impossible way, almost like he did, only better, because before him, I didn't know any different, whereas after him, I was so completely broken and lost that it could only take a human version of him to put the pieces back together again. Like children with papier-mâché, or Frankenstein with his monster. But this is irrelevant really, because all I know for certain is that you're a good man, Sherlock Holmes. A very good man. And I will never forget you and everything that you have done for me. Thank you. So much. Always._

_Yours,_

_R._

…

I seal the envelope, carefully smoothing down each adhesive edge where it meets the paper, and thinking to myself how strange it is to wonder whether that was what Sherlock had done for me; smoothed out all my edges, stuck me back together. Except he hasn't exactly done that because there is only one man who can. I print the address, letting '221B Baker Street' sink into my memory for the last time before I step outside of my flat and head for another, dropping the honesty-ridden letter into a post box on the way. I stop outside a petrol blue door and steady myself. This was it; now or never. I knock on it tentatively, and watch with biting anticipation as it slowly opens to reveal the one person who I know can give me the missing piece of my puzzle.

'Hello,' he says, surprised to see me.

'Hi,' I reply, desperately searching for some normal, explanatory way to phrase everything I want, no, _need _to say to him.

'What are you-?' he begins, but before I know it, I'm jumping in, cutting him off with the three words I definitely didn't mean to say right there and then.

'I love you.' There is silence. You could cut the air with a knife.

I begin to gabble, stumbling over my words in a sudden desperation to say all of it, every single word. 'And I'm sorry, I truly am. I was stupid, a silly little girl, I needed to grow up! You were right, everything you said. I was selfish, I wanted _Him_ back, the Doctor. But you're not him, you never will be, and that's better because I need to settle down and live a normal, happy life, and I know that I don't deserve you, and you're too good for me, and that you shouldn't have to put up with any of my shit, but I've changed. No, really, I've changed. I want you. I want _you_, not him…' I trail off and finish my big amazing speech that completely hasn't gone to plan at all with a feeble, 'So…what do you think?'

He sighs.

'I think you'd better come in, Rosie…'


	11. XI: If There's A Rocket Tie Me To It

**A/N: Once again, I can only apologise profusely for my terrible lack of updating. I've not long finished my undergraduate degree and since my last update things have been more than hectic what with my dissertation and exams that this story unfortunately fell a bit by the wayside. But, like I said, I'm finally finished now and can at last devote some time to finishing this. There's only two chapters left now, so here's hoping that I can get my finger out and crack on with some much-needed fic-writing!**

**A/N Take Two: Just a quick warning that this chapter is full of lemon. If you want to avoid it you can skip the final section. Although while the chapter does still work, it makes the story lack a bit.**

**A/N Take Three: Please remember that reviews are love and completely make my day so please take some time out of yours to leave me one and I'll try to arrange either a high-functioning sociopathic super-sleuth (try saying that five times when you're drunk!) and/or a super-dooper, super-sexy Time Lord-Human hybrid to pay you a visit!**

_**...**_

_**XI: If There's a Rocket Tie Me to It**_

_And I knew the beat 'cause it matched your own beat, __  
><em>_I still remember it from our chest to chest and feet to feet.__  
><em>_The easy silence then was a sweet relief to this hush,__  
><em>_Of ovens, aeroplanes and of distant car horns.__  
><em>_  
><em>_A fire, a fire, you can only take what you can carry,__  
><em>_A pulse, your pulse, it's the only thing I can remember.__  
><em>_I break, you don't, I was always set to self-destruct though,__  
><em>_The fire, the fire, it cracks and barks like primal music._

…

_Rosie._ It's funny how names come to mean different things to different people, isn't it? He always called me Rose. Or 'Lewis', when he was feeling particularly playful. I think once, he even referred to me as some ridiculous fairytale...something like 'The Big Bad Wolf', I think... But the rest of the time, it was plain old Rose. And now him. John. Names again, you see? I call The Doctor, 'Him'. Capitalised, of course; well, he's earned it, hasn't he? And yet, up until now, I've always been fairly comfortable in referring to the other him as 'The Clone', because 'John' never seemed to fit right, really. It's too...mundane. But he – John, that is – calls me Rosie... It's funny, it's never been my name before, not even when someone was being affectionate, but with him – John – it just..._fits me_. Maybe I should get him to change his name to James... Then we could be 'Rosie and Jim', like the kids' show I watched when I was little...maybe then we'd be normal...

Oh, who am I kidding?

I walk into his kitchen, drinking in the clean marble-effect surfaces that make up the counter-tops, and stopping at the small, round wooden table in the middle of the room. He sinks into a matching chair, propping his feet up on the one nearest to him, his long legs forming some silly kind of bridge between the two. He doesn't offer me a drink. He doesn't speak. He doesn't even look at me; just stares at his tented fingertips and sighs intermittently.

I don't know what to do so I just drum my fingers against the top of the wooden chair back; something which clearly annoys him, as he begins wringing his hands in a way that has always told me that he's irritated. In desperation of something to do with my hands that doesn't include running them through his hair, I quickly walk over to the kettle, taking it to the sink to fill it up and then hunting through the cupboards to find the mugs and the tea. Tea. Free radicals and tannins. Just a little pick-me-up. _Just the thing for healing the synapses…_ and hopefully healing us too.

One of us needs to break the silence.

But which one? Is it safer to wait for him to collect himself enough to get everything off his chest? Or is he waiting for me to explain myself first? I was never very good in situations like this…not that I've ever really been in one as complicated as this before… I open my mouth, stealing myself to say something, _anything_…and then…

'I don't know what to do, Rosie. I don't know how to even look at you…'

'I'm…'

'No, I don't want to hear it,' he says, cutting me off. 'I think you've already said too much, don't you?'

I remember the expression on his face when I finally released all the hateful, spiteful thoughts that had been brewing inside my head and I know he's right. I shut my mouth, hanging my head and letting him speak.

'I don't want you to tell me how sorry you are. I don't want you to tell me how much you wish things had turned out differently, or how much you want to take back everything that you said. You made your feelings perfectly clear.'

He pauses, collecting himself, and I know that he is preparing himself to say something that he doesn't really want to confront. 'I know that there was someone else.'

My head snaps up, eyes wide; _how does he know?_

'I'm not an idiot, Rose.' We're seemingly dispensing with the niceties and nicknames now… 'I know you were sneaking around in those last few months. Do you know how?'

I shake my head, begging him to put me out of my misery but too afraid to make a noise.

'Because you were happy.'

It's the first time I properly meet his gaze. 'What?'

'I hadn't seen you smile since he left and then all of a sudden, the day after your mum's gala, you're grinning like you can't stop. Like some sort of silly lovesick teenager!'

'I'm sorry…I…'

'Don't apologise. I told you, I don't want to hear it. You broke my heart well before you hurled all your bitterness at me. It was broken the first time I saw you smile.' He hung his head, returning to twisting his fingers together.

'It's over now,' I whisper, finally reaching my hand out to twirl into his tousled hair. The kettle whistles, almost forgotten, merely serving to highlight the silence.

'Does it matter?' he asks, lifting his head so that he can look at me, his eyes pouring into mine, searching for an answer that I know in my heart that I can't give.

'No. I suppose not,' I concede. 'But I wish it did…'

He nods. 'So. What now?'

'I don't know. I suppose we only have two options, really…'

'What are they?'

I swallow, choosing my words carefully. 'Well… I can either leave and you can forget that I ever existed… Or, we can start over. Try again…'

'How could I _ever_ forget you?'

He stands up, closing his hand around mine, searching my face for something resembling surrender.

He doesn't need to look. Silence wells up between us again, but it's more comfortable than before and he whispers one final sentence before we embrace it.

'I won't let you call me "Doctor".'

I nod. When his lips meet mine, any remaining thoughts of Sherlock Holmes and impossible Time Lords vanish from my mind. Somehow, even though it has taken me a long time and one hell of a lot of growing up to realise it, I'm finally home.

…

It isn't hasty. We don't just tumble into bed with each other and let nature take its course. We're careful, still unsure of each other; _still wary._ We're exploring each other…and it's awkward. There's nothing perfect about a reconciliation. Two people who thought that they were never meant to be together suddenly deciding that they have to have each other in every way possible doesn't exactly make for a pressure-free environment. But we make it work.

His hands slide up my waist, snaking inwards to stroke my stomach before finishing their skate along the sides of my body. I press against him, wanting to be as close as possible to him, afraid that I might wake up at any second and find that this is just another cruel dream plucked from my treacherous subconscious. He tilts my chin upwards, forcing me to look at him, and his eyes are dark and intense in a way that I have never seen them before. In that moment, right there, right then, regardless of anything else, I want him and he wants me. It's that need that drives us on, pushing our exploration to the next level. We've seen each other naked before, of course, but somehow this feels like our first time together, when everything is stripped bare and feels new and exciting and terrifying all at the same time. We want to explore every inch of each other, relearning and rediscovering the maps of each other's bodies. His hands reach my face, cradling it between them as he leans down to kiss me. It's tender and loving and sends a flush rushing through my whole body until he finally unzips my dress and lets it fall to the floor, pooling at my feet. I reciprocate, divesting him of his t-shirt and clumsily unbuttoning his jeans before he pushes them down his legs and steps out of them. He unclasps my bra, throwing it away towards some forgotten corner of the room and pulls me into his arms, finally bringing us skin-to-skin in that blissful merger of body heat and sweat and nerves that feels strangely comfortable.

He brings his hands around from my back to cup my breasts, massaging them as his tongue traces along my lips before exploring my mouth. We stumble over to the bed, eyes closes, idyllically entwined in kisses and too involved in each other to care about the actual direction that we are heading in. We finally hit the sheets, arching backwards until I can feel him pushing against me with his cock. He pulls my underwear down my legs, exposing me as he does the same for himself and then suddenly, his fingers are exactly where I want them to be, exploring me, teasing me, making me writhe and moan until I come loudly, arching my back and screaming his name; _his _name, no-one else's. Without hesitation, almost desperately, he pushes himself into me, holding himself still inside me for a moment as we both take a second to remind ourselves that this is really happening. Then, without warning, he begins to move, a gentle rhythm which drives me to the brink of madness until he leans down and kisses me, pushing upwards at the same time and hitting that perfect, sweet spot that I need so badly. We writhe against each other, pulling the sheets off the bed with our erratic movements until we're obliviously fucking each other in amongst a puddle of them in the middle of the mattress. It all feels less controlled now, and we gasp out a mixture of expletives, and desperate encouragements, and each other's names, until he rolls me over so that I am on top of him and he pushes into me one last time before our entwined bodies explode with pleasure and exhaustion.

I sigh contentedly. With Sherlock, everything had been meticulous yet feral, but with him, it was tentative, but infinitely more real. I finally know which one is better.

It goes dark faster than anticipated and the soft glow from the streetlamp filters in through the gauzy curtains, illuminating his naked body, stretched out next to me; the tousled hair, the long, muscly, runner's legs, the long eyelashes dusting sharp cheekbones as he breathes shallowly in his sated sleep. It's harder for me. _Sleep_. That elusive bedfellow that has evaded me for so long. I think back to the last time that I actually managed to sleep through the night; the first time I was with Sherlock. I still remember the bitter dream that I had that night, the dream that had placed me next to the exact same naked body as I am lying next to now. Exactly the same, just a little bit different. I remember the sheets pooling around my waist, just as they are doing now, and I remember the elation of being next to him and knowing that he was mine. And now he is. Granted, it's not exactly what I had initially wanted when I was stranded on that godforsaken beach for the second time, but I finally realise that it's exactly what I need in order to move on. That something that is exactly the same but just a little bit different in a way that you would never have expected would fulfil your every wish.


End file.
